


the blame game

by gortysproject



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M, Mentioned Character Death, Set after Boléro, Spoilers up to Desperate Times, not very romantic so the relationship tag has been used loosely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gortysproject/pseuds/gortysproject
Summary: The contact event has passed; Colonel Kepler and Mr Jacobi are left in the observation deck.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a little "what-if" for events after boléro. for the sake of this fic, the contact event didn't turn into anything dramatic or life-changing (which probably won't ACTUALLY happen, i know). i just wrote this as a vent when i couldn't stop thinking about how jacobi would feel about kepler after everything that happened.

“Mr Jacobi?”

Silence. If it weren’t for the rattling of the air vent, the purr of the ship’s engine, and the jingling of chains as the Colonel shifts in his position, he would wonder if it were in his ability to hear anything at all. He’s unused to being ignored; he’s seldom been ignored by Jacobi.

“Jacobi.” The word sounds slightly sharper now, the light-hearted tone edging towards something dangerous. It sounds like thin ice, but without the ominous creak that warns you to step onto dry land. There’s still no answer, but when Kepler tilts his head back slightly, he can just about catch the quiet, ragged breaths of his former second-in-command. He must be making an effort to quieten them – the two men are only separated by a couple of inches, due to the unfortunate nature of their imprisonment. Briefly, Kepler wonders if being chained back-to-back with Jacobi was done deliberately by their new commander to unnerve him.

 _No_ , he thinks. _She’s not smart enough._ Glancing around, it appears the much more obvious answer is that there is only one pole in the observation deck far away enough from all the equipment for them to be able to reach any of it. After a moment, he compromises: she _is_ smart. Still not smart _enough._

“Daniel,” he tries, lip twitching to prevent the disappointed growl from slipping into his voice. At that, he feels Jacobi’s fingertips curl away from his where their hands meet, handcuffed to the bottom of the pole. The gesture irritates him. “Alright,” he says, voice slow, tone lilting. “Alright. We’ll do this… _your_ way.”

The room returns to its artificial version of silence, and Colonel Kepler closes his eyes. The hum of machinery has always helped him relax – on tense nights, after talks with Mr Cutter – and he allows it to do so again now, the soft sound running almost seamlessly. There is an occasional shift, a small glitch, even a moment where Jacobi’s breathing is louder than any technological background noise. But Kepler waits.

Jacobi struggles in two distinct areas, both of which Colonel Kepler is familiar with and eager to protect. The first is sitting in absolute silence; the second is ignoring his boss. Fortunately, both of these problems work in Kepler’s favour, here. He doesn’t need to pester Jacobi to answer; Jacobi will come to him. 

Seconds slip into minutes. Kepler finds himself spending the time both despising and admiring his subordinate’s resolve. Minutes stretch into eras, and were the Colonel not so certain Jacobi would break soon enough, he’d have timed the gap between his words and the moment Jacobi cracks from the silence. Still, he finds himself counting seconds nonetheless, if only to try and slow the beating of his heart.

Finally, after what could be estimated as around ten minutes, Jacobi asks, “Was it worth it?”

Lips curling at the corners, Kepler rolls his shoulders, satisfied now that the silence has been broken. Jacobi’s voice was sullen, simultaneously reluctant to speak but apathetic of its consequence. Regardless, the Colonel maintains an amiable tone, replying calmly, “Waiting for Minkowski to attempt a mutiny? Or lying to you?”

“Shooting Lovelace.” His voice is contemptuous, and it surprises Kepler that that – of _everything_ – is what upsets Jacobi. He opens his mouth to reply again, but Jacobi continues. “Shooting her for – for what, the _drama_? To make the others think they’d _lost_ her? For a _mind game_?”

“Settle down, Jacobi –”

He ignores him. “Was it worth losing Maxwell, _sir_?” The title is thrown out bitterly, and, gut twisting, Kepler waits for Jacobi to finish. It becomes clear after a long moment that he has no more to say.

“I... don’t know, Mr Jacobi.” Despite being unable to see Jacobi, Kepler feels him deflate at the admittance. He grits his teeth. “ _Was_ it?”

“What?”

The Colonel lets out a short chuckle. There’s no humour contained in it. “ _Was_ it worth losing Dr Maxwell?” At the other’s silence, he continues. “See, I – I thought it might be worth pitching your question to the one who actually _got_ her killed.”

He knows he’s pressed a button. Jacobi’s shoulders tense. “No,” he says, lowly. “No, I didn’t – I was acting on _your orders_. I was –”

“My orders,” Kepler cuts in, voice slow, soft, “were to proceed to Contingency Echo, were they not?” 

Jacobi nods stiffly. Kepler feels the motion as Jacobi’s hair tickles the back of his neck. “And Contingency Echo, if I’m not mistaken, Mr Jacobi,” he continues, still speaking unhurriedly, “was the name of the plan whereby, in case of a mutiny, you should head to the comms room, disable open communication, and prevent the Hephaestus crew from using their sloppily-hidden attempt at chemical warfare. Interrupt me if I’m wrong, by the way.”

There’s no response.

“Contingency Echo was _not_ , therefore, a direct order to kill Dr Hilbert, _especially_ in the context of a clear warning from Lieutenant Minkowski, where she announced that if you were to go through with detonating the C-4, she would shoot her hostage.”

There’s still no response.

Any pretense of joy has faded from the Colonel’s demeanour. He shifts, and the sound of metal chains hitting one another follows the action. “I shot Captain Lovelace,” he confirms, voice empty of friendliness but similarly empty of regret. After a moment, he corrects himself. “I shot… the thing _posing_ as Captain Lovelace. But I can assure you, Mr Jacobi, _I_ had no hand in the death of Dr Maxwell.”

With those words, Kepler leans back, eyes closing once again to listen to the hum of the machinery. Jacobi is trembling now – only minutely, but his nails are just barely skating over the skin of Kepler’s fingers as his subordinate’s cuffed hands shake. He wonders if Jacobi has it in him to cry. He didn’t at the funeral, but he may have just not had the chance. They were, after all, rather rudely interrupted.

Eyes fluttering open again, the Colonel takes in the view ahead; he has the good chance of being locked up facing the shimmering blue shape of Wolf 359. Jacobi, on the other hand, gets to stare into deep space. Kepler studies the outline of the star, the way it bathes the otherwise-darkened room in blue light, and decides he could not think of a more beautiful place to contemplace his own mistakes.

The problem is, he doesn’t particularly _want_ to contemplate them at all. And as Jacobi’s fingertips skim over his skin yet again, he twists his hand, allowing him to catch Jacobi’s wrist loosely between his thumb and forefinger.

“Let me go.” The words have no bite.

Kepler decides, then, to offer Jacobi mercy. _Salvation_. He tightens his grip on the other man’s wrist, holding it firmly but not painfully, and says, “We can play the blame game, Mr Jacobi, or we can think of who is _really_ at fault here.” He pauses. Jacobi says nothing. “I didn’t kill Dr Maxwell. But, Jacobi, neither did you.”

He hears Jacobi swallow. “What does it even matter?” he asks, and Kepler could kiss him – it’s the _exact_ question he wanted to hear.

“It matters,” he starts, “because Minkowski is commanding this station, there is an alien on board that’s _aware_ it is an alien, and I would sincerely appreciate having this… _messy_ situation cleaned up in time for my scheduled call with Mr Cutter tonight.”

There’s a long pause. Kepler doesn’t realise it, but he’s holding his breath on Jacobi’s answer.

Eventually, against the steady hum of the machines surrounding them, Jacobi clears his throat and replies, “What – what were you thinking?”

Kepler smiles. It’s a genuine, radiant smile, and he pulls Jacobi’s hand towards his side pocket. “Wire’s in there,” he tells him, releasing his wrist so that Jacobi can use the angle of his hand to dig into the pocket. “No commander worth his title walks into a mutiny without having _some_ plan in case he is, actually, overthrown.”

As Jacobi’s fingers press inside Kepler’s pocket, tugging out the wire, Kepler takes it from him and promptly begins to feed the wire into his handcuffs’ lock. “Minkowski’s smart,” he tells Jacobi, gaze fixated on the dwarf star as he fumbles blindly with the lock pick. “In the observation deck, a prisoner can’t reach any essential equipment – no equipment at _all_ , in fact. The vents are too small to crawl through. Thanks to the structure, a prisoner can be handcuffed in the centre of the room, entirely isolated from the rest of the crew. Entirely isolated from any _help_.”

“Yes, sir, I know. Great room. Super tough to break out of.” Jacobi doesn’t say it, but Kepler nevertheless hears his argument: _you’re pointing out every reason this escape won’t work._

“The one flaw with the observation deck, Mr Jacobi, is when you have _two_ prisoners. They can talk to each other. They can work together. Dare I say, they could even _escape_ together.” He pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth as he focuses on feeding the wire into the handcuffs. “It was smart of Minkowski to lock a prisoner up in here. It was entirely stupid of her to lock up _two_.”

“That’s great, sir,” Jacobi replies obediently, “but I’m still not hearing your _plan_.”

Kepler chuckles. “Well, Mr Jacobi,” he begins, pausing in time for them to both hear the satisfying click of an opening lock, “did I ever tell you the story about the Pedrinhas Prison Complex?”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if you liked this!! find me on tumblr @aihera!!


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